the battleships is the electric flashbulb of the days.
in a song of rains, my mother flood the radio
that learned as the sunset about her.

i mouth the good like the bear
as if i looked like someone hangs
the air. the wind seems to be
holy poison of a long walk
to the woods, flowers in the suitcase,
and the way the sun will take the clipping of god.

nor one who will hurt or whitewash the children:
a bird is a story of a dead.
the forest was sheets.

my father said: the scream of the weatherman in the stones.

i want to drizzle in some cadence
of the cause: whatever it was are not
a command of his hands. it’s a graveyard of the kiss
of salt, and the same could still think of dirt and holy,
he says, her hands of the dead world.
so you stand and now, so yellow i didn’t know
the southern of great between the sunset morning.

i hope the telephone where they are is soft
as the shore of my stone breath,
the gray and say of the exploding.

A Serious Who about Leaves

More on the sunset of the color of the stars. The stars of the shale of a sunset. We said, You want to be read of the sea. I was a story of the prayer of the moon. I was the sharp-said story of a cat, beer with shoulders and a stand of composite of a death. A thin stand of stars. I said it is a pool of snow, the bird is a calendar of the story of a story. It is a mouse of the constellations on a compass.

I would like to say the color of the ice as a pool of silver windows. I was the same of the space between the trains. The sky was someone who knows her side of the trains, and there was a string on the back of a silver belly. It was the stars like a string and soon the stars of the stars. The tears stand like tangerines. I had a serious who about leaves. The way they were a death of the sound of a commandment of the back of the trees. The way they were a stare of the moon.

2

i.
the cold season. who would say the silver plane
was worth the wind flooding
the moon, like a steam room and now alight?
this afternoon of a swan,
the water grays to leave the gray. so you said
to pretend to say the way to win hard and calls for the lake
and what i have right.

ii.
the birds are shovely, but our black hard will heart,
the way the weeks could mean
the standing stars from a staccato of the scales.

—i have not meant back on ripples,
only you are water like paint
is a box of wants itself into a freckle.

the element is back of my panicked curse.
it's the river of least,
the common day wheels about blood.

i was like a sick stripping of air.
consider the west, so help me,
and i stand on the season of a suntrail january.

B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently Yes (Parallel Press, 2014). These poems are written in collaboration with Torch-rnn, a neural network library that writes words one character at a time. Torch-rnn is created by Justin Johnson, based on work by Andrej Karpathy. B.J. lives in Wisconsin; torch-rnn lives on GitHub.